October
by Blacknoise
Summary: Canada. The October Crisis. The experience of a nation coming apart from within, and the struggle to keep himself together. England and France contribute, but fail to help. PG-13/R


Disclaimer: I took a large chunk of creative license with this, obviously!!! D:

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July 23, 1967

_ Parliament Hill, Ottawa, Ontario_

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Matthew does not miss the clenched fists or the tension in Lester B. Pearson's voice as he paces the floor in the Prime Minister's office. Canada has been summoned down from his apartments inside 24 Sussex and into an urgent meeting with the PM.

"So Charles de Gaulle is coming to visit," Matthew says slowly, "but there's some sort of problem." He doesn't know why, but he feels uneasier than he thinks he ought to. He twirls a pen between two fingers.

Pearson looks at him tiredly. "Johnson invited him. He's only visiting Québec. He isn't so much as stopping in Ottawa."

Matthew frowns. "But isn't that diplomatic protocol for state visits?"

Pearson sighs. "I don't think he really wants to talk to Anglophone Canada. They've already been giving the Governor General hell up there." Indeed, Roland Michener had been booed at every turn. Pearson pinches the bridge of his nose. "He's a decorated war veteran and an important President for France. We can't just barge in there and shut him up."

"Why not?" Matthew demands, frown deepening, "I'm not _his_ country. He has no right or claim to my people."

"Diplomacy, Mr. Williams," Pearson says sourly. "We're supposed to be good at it, remember?" He stops pacing, and places his hands on his wide desk. He looks Matthew straight in the eye. "I need _you_ to be there as soon as you can. We must know how the public is reacting. There are still plenty of people who want a sovereign Québec." Matthew nods and leaves immediately.

It takes him ten minutes to be officially over the border and in Québec. He goes by car to try to clear his tumultuous mind as he drives, windows down with summer evening breeze, fragrant with wildflowers and sweet grass, drifting through. It doesn't work nearly as well as he'd hoped. An hour and a half later, crossing the bridge into Montréal, it feels as though there is frozen lead in the pit of his stomach.

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July 24, 1967

_ Hôtel de Ville, Montréal, Québec_

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The crowd gathered is so much larger than he imagined. He is buffeted to and fro by the crush of people. The excitement is tangible as de Gaulle arrives on the balcony of the Hôtel, which is draped in blue, white, and red. Matthew is not looking at the President, however. There's a man in de Gaulle's retinue, a young-looking man in fine Parisian couture with long blond hair and a sharp nose. He stares right back down at Matthew, a secretive smile playing on his lips. _France_…

He feels something shift, deep within. A centuries-old fault line develops a brand new crack. It runs deep.

de Gaulle addresses the crowd, his voice strong, bold, and dispassionate. The people are enthralled. They are feverish and they are ready to act. Matthew is all but swept away by the current of people, surging towards the balcony, but his eyes are locked on Francis Bonnefoy's and he will not look away. _What are you doing here?_

As de Gaulle speaks, he praises the people, tells them that he is reminded of the crowds in Paris after the liberation from Nazi Germany. Flattered, the people cheer him on. It is a short address, and seems to conclude with a rousing, "_Vive le Montréal! Vive le Québec!_" Matthew begins to relax, thinking the worst over. Yet Francis' seemingly benign smile is growing by the second. He can see the white points of wolfish teeth.

_Voyez, mon enfant_, France mouths. Canada watches, filled with sudden dread.

After a momentary pause, de Gaulle speaks again. "_Vive le Québec…_ libre." Matthew's head snaps up in horror as the crowd screams vindication. The fault line becomes a crack becomes a gorge becomes a rift. It is as if someone has thrown gasoline on forgotten, smoldering embers. "_Vive le Canada français! Et vive la France!_"

Then he is sprinting back to his car, desperate to speed back to Ottawa and consult with Pearson, who must already be livid.

Or is he pressed eagerly into the throng, growing stronger by their voices, magnifying the wild cheers, chafing at the leash and ready to be set loose?

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-Later that evening-

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_Parliament Hill, Ottawa, Ontario_

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"Matthew, you look sick," Trudeau tells him frankly. "Is it that bad?" Pearson is under siege by the media, unable to spare Canada even a moment.

"It's fine," Matthew lies. "Just a flash in the pan. Nothing to worry about." He presses his chapped lips together and shuts his eyes against the electric jab of migraine pain in his skull. Honestly, he feels too hot and too cold at once, is barely sure if he is sitting or standing. Pierre Elliott Trudeau is the newly appointed minister of justice, and he does not hide his disgust with de Gaulle's behaviour.

"Wonder what he'd have said if we started shouting 'Brittany to the Bretons'. I bet France would just _love_ that." The man, crackling with energy, shakes his head angrily behind his desk. "What right does he have to meddle in our affairs?"

_The French-Canadians deserve their voice_, Matthew snaps, in his head. "None at all," he says aloud.

Trudeau makes an unhappy noise in his throat. "de Gaulle knows how we feel about foreign interference. He knows how_ I _feel about what he's said tonight. Hell, I know what he's already saying about me. I don't care. Francophone Canada is still Canada. Québec is just as much a part of this nation as Ontario or any other province."

_Spoken like a turncoat Anglo-sympathizer_, flickers disdainfully through his mind. "Of course it is," he says tiredly.

"Matthew," Trudeau says, very seriously, "Go get some rest. Please."

He takes two too many sleeping pills that night and does not get out of bed for days. When he finally returns to his office, he learns that de Gaulle has returned to Paris without another word to the Canadian government. His hand shakes as he lifts his coffee mug to his lips. A rushing sound is filling his ears, and it is the voice of angry millions chanting _Liberté, liberté._

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Late-1967

_Northern Québec (Nunavik), outside of Kuujjuaq _

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It's colder than he remembers, even though it's after dark and the year is drawing to a close and things _ought_ to be frigid here; it's never cut him this deeply before. He doesn't bother trying to remember why he's here; for all he knows he's dreaming.

"It's a simple technique, my friend," that high, frosty voice murmurs, lighting the soaked rag in the bottle and hurling it with titanic force far out into the frozen Ungava bay. Flames explode over the ice in the distance, liquid fire over solid water.

Mechanically, with cold-stiff fingers, he lights his own Molotov and launches it out over the ice. It does not go nearly as far, but still makes good distance, splashing a swath of burning destruction on the bay.

The night wind picks up, and the scratchy wool of his instructor's scarf hits him in the face.

"You know," his taller companion sing-songs, fingering the steel faucet he uses as both accessory and weapon, "I was not coming up with the name for these myself. Finland made it up, when he was resisting me."

"So should _I_ be resisting?" Resisting whom or what, he cannot say.

"This is your country, Matthew. At least for now. You must use your own judgment, da?"

"What if I don't trust my judgment anymore?"

A chilling smile is his only reply.

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April 20, 1968

_Parliament Hill_

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Matthew watches Trudeau's swearing-in as Prime Minister of Canada, (Trudeau in a sharp gray suit and he in modified Mountie dress-uniform; full regalia and a bright, convincing grin), a quiet sibilant voice is suggesting that he has a perfect angle of attack; one quick, silenced shot and those Anglo shits would be like headless chickens. The back of Trudeau's head glimmers in his vision like a bull's eye.

Trudeau recites the oath of office given to him by the Clerk of the Privy Council, making his position official in front of Parliament and in front of Canada himself. Matthew's left fist clenches and unclenches and his eyes turn flinty. Then the fog clears and he smiles honestly, welcoming his charismatic, passionate new boss.

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1969

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Matthew spends most of '69 quietly, though tensions are rising between the federal government, the government of Québec, and a revolutionary party called the Front de Libération du Québec. The rift in him grows, day by day digging deeper and splintering into smaller pieces. He devotes himself to his work to the North, West, and East, to keeping the rest of himself together. All the while, unrest and uncertainty sting him and he can't sleep well.

He dreams of training; perfecting pipe-bombs and pistol-whipping. He learns KGB combat tactics. Feels the crunch of a neck snapping as he twists his arms ijust so/i. Smells the heat of burning buildings, the stink of fear emanating from his own softer, weaker self.

Every day, he is in Parliament for twenty hours at a stretch, working to smooth out relations with Québec.

Every night, as he dreams, he shivers with savage pleasure as he crushes the life from a spasming throat.

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October 5, 1970

_Liberation Cell_

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James Cross struggles as Matthew shoves him out the door; the man's screaming family adds nicely to the background noise. The point of his handgun presses against the Englishman's cheek, purposeful, yes, and wonderful. The UK's trade commissioner stumbles as they bind his hands and force him into the van. _We don't want you, Arthur. We don't need you_. He kicks the terrified man for good measure.

He wakes with a strangled noise, cringing against the threat of a gun. Cold sweat seeps from his hairline. His heart hammers hard enough to burst, and he tastes copper and bile in his mouth.

He is alone. There is no gun.

Outside, the morning doves begin to sing.

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October 8

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_ "The people in the Front de Liberation du Québec are neither Messiahs nor modern-day Robin Hoods."_

The airwaves are flooded with it. Every station, the whole CBC, across the province, millions of little bells are ringing. The sound rattles in his teeth.

_"We are fed up with the taxes we pay that Ottawa's agent in Québec would give to the English-speaking bosses as an "incentive" for them to speak French, to negotiate in French. Repeat after me: "Cheap labour is _main d'oeuvre à bon marché_ in French.""_

Quiet, quiet, _QUIET_

_"We live in a society of terrorized slaves_"

No, this is a good country. You need us. We need you.

_"Our struggle can only be victorious. A people that has awakened cannot long be kept in misery and contempt._"

Please.

"_Long live Free Québec!_

_Long live our comrades the political prisoners!_

_Long live the Québec Revolution!_

_Long live the Front de Liberation du Québec!_"

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October 10

_Chenier Cell_

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Laporte is playing football with his nephew when they grab him. Seeing through Jacques Rose's eyes, he spits on him (the nephew strikes at him with small hands; he knocks him to the ground).

"'Minister of unemployment and assimilation'", he sneers, "We are the FLQ. Québec does not want or need your meddling."

Another family is screaming.

He hopes Parliament is watching.

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October 13

_House of Commons_

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He can't believe what he's hearing. War measures? Armed forces in the streets?

For once, both sides of the divide are in agreement. This simply is not supposed to happen. Not here, not like this.

Matthew doesn't sit among the rows of green-padded seats, with the MPs and cabinet members and the Speaker. He sits high up in the galleries above the floor, usually content to watch the stately progression of democratic government. Today a sharp, spitting anger borne of frustration strikes him._ This can't be the only way_.

He up-ends his seat, fine old wood clattering on stone. Hundreds of members of Parliament stare up at him silently. He rushes from the room.

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_ Prime Minister's Office_

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"I have no intention of becoming a police state just to rat out these cowards!" he says loudly, pacing, _pacing_.

"I'm going to do whatever it takes to stop the FLQ, Matthew. I don't have time for this weak-kneed, bleeding heart garbage."

Matthew tosses his papers across Trudeau's desk, just on the near side of raging. "My citizens are _frightened_, Pierre. They're just as afraid of what you're doing as of the fucking FLQ!"

"I doubt that." So calm. So unbelievably calm.

"Just how far are you going to go to stop these men?" _We can take it, let us out, let us go!_

"Well, just watch me."

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October 15

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He walks slowly down the Centre Block halls, every sound he makes echoing back a hundredfold from the vaulted marble ceiling and spiraling columns. He can see his own silhouette bending and twisting in the polished stone as he moves. The usual flicker of pride in himself, in his peaceful, free, united young country, is utterly absent. Québec City is in constant contact with Trudeau, begging for federal armed intervention.

He has his share of work to do. Letters to write, phone calls to make. He needs a drink.

France is in his office when he stumbles inside. He becomes instantly furious. He charges at the Frenchman, grabbing him by his finely tailored collar. "This is all your fault," he spits, vibrating with rage.

France glances down at the hand on his shirt with a mildly amused expression. "_Mais non_, my poor Mathieu," he coos, "This is _your_ problem. I merely reminded your people that they were once _my_ people. You are blind if you did not see this coming, _mon fils_…"

Matthew screams in fury, teeth flashing, bodily shoving the older man against the bookcase. "_I AM NOT YOUR SON_!"

Francis' amusement has become low, mocking laughter. "Ah, there's the fight I was hoping for," he says expansively, smirking despite the fact that Canada's hand has found its way to the flesh of his neck and is toying with the possibility of crushing his windpipe, "a little rebellion. Per'aps, dare I suggest, a little _revolution_?"

Canada makes an inhuman sound and lashes out, fist tight and face livid. At the last second, he diverts his punch, knuckles splitting on leather and paper and wood, a hair away from France's skull. Books fall noisily to the counterpoint of French laughter.

He wants to tear France to pieces. He kisses him instead.

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October 16

_Château Laurier, Ottawa, ON_

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Canada opens his eyes, only to discover that he has been sleeping next to France.

He aches all over; every inch of skin and length of bone _hurts_. His arms and legs are bruised, as is the skin around Francis' white neck. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and musk. Sheets stick to his clammy skin.

His left arm stretches toward Francis' smooth skin and golden hair. His right hand is clenched, trembling, around the bedpost, trying to drag him out of bed. His heart racing, Canada is stuck in between the opposing pulls, ultimately not moving at all.

He feels filthy.

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It's like the worst hangover he's ever had, flickering between the dreams and "reality", dancing between love and hate.

_If this is the start of civil war,_ he thinks, _if this is "revolution", I don't want it_!

He has no idea how America and countless other nations survived the splitting migraines, the overwhelming _duality_ of it all. He's a wreck. Literally nauseous.

When he staggers up Wellington Street, it's barely dawn. There's a good frost on the grass and his breath fogs readily in the air. His fingers drag against the frigid wrought-iron fencing. Ottawa is still and quiet. He makes his way up the long stairway to the building, realizing that the Neo-Gothic arches and spires actually look _menacing_ to him for the first time. He stumbles on his way up, scraping a hand bloody on icy stone as he catches himself.

Head bowed, he makes it through the great doors below the Peace Tower only to be seized suddenly by gloved hands, RCMP officers, and "escorted" to his office. It's clear; Trudeau's passed the War Measures Act. "Since four this morning, sir," an officer tells him when he asks. They push him firmly into his office. Shut the door.

His stomach clenches. He vomits.

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His head is pressed against the cool soothing porcelain of the toilet bowl. His limbs are arranged haphazardly on the tiled floor. He can't motivate himself to lift himself up, and the guards he can hear outside do not come in to help him. The sound of his own shaky breathing is his only companion.

He vomits again, water and bile.

There's a knock on the bathroom door that cuts through the splitting pain in his skull.

"Matthew, are you in there?"

He manages an anguished moan. _Am I in here_? He still sees yesterday's pro-FLQ riots in Montréal (young hearts, revolutionary spirit) in front of his eyes.

The door is forced open. Trudeau steps in, coughing a bit at the stench. He grabs him by the arm, hauls him up, and shoves him into the shower, clothes and all.

"You're wanted at Rideau Hall."

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_Rideau Hall_

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_O Canada, our home on Native land,_

_Singin' God Save the Queen_

_With blood upon on our hands_

Canada sing-songs the tune that would become his anthem in another ten years, discordantly and with bitterness in his voice as he waits in the Governor General's living room. Tea sits untouched on the table beside him. He takes a heavy swig of whiskey from a small flask. There are guards at every entrance. Guns trained on every window.

"I need Cross back immediately, you understand," a brusque, distinct voice clips.

Wearily, he turns in his seat to look at the UK, not even bothering to rise for the customary handshake.

"We're working on it, Arthur," he says softly.

His constitutional superior (really, what does that even mean) gives him a disdainful look, curling his lip at the lack of respect. "Truly, Matthew, I expected better of you. Can't you even keep your _own people_ in line?"

"'In line'?!" He says, incredulous. "They hate me because I'm connected to _you._" He climbs slowly to his feet, swaying slightly. "They're—that part of _me_'s closer to France. It's separate. Distinct. It's taken on a mind of its ow—"

His head rocks to the side abruptly as Arthur slaps him. Cuts his lip.

Arthur grabs his jaw, hard, tilting his head up and forcing him to the ground. "You are _not_ French; you are _not_ his, and you are _not_ falling apart. You are _British_, damn it, and this—this petty _insurrection_ is _nothing_. You. Are. Mine."

None of it is quite true anymore, and they both know it. The UK reels back as Canada spits blood and saliva in his face. He shoves Matthew back down in disgust.

Silence stretches between them, tense and terrible. From the floor, Canada bursts into caustic, cruel laughter. "Am I?" he demands, hysteria making his voice high, distorted, "Really, Arthur, do you even give a fuck anymore?"

Arthur sneers at him. "You pathetic little shit. _Sort yourself out_."

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_Montréal_, later that night

_Chenier Cell_

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The extension-cord wire is warm friction in his hands as he tightens it around Laporte's neck. Laporte's eyes bulge and his tongue is protruding, dark and swollen. Blunt nails scrabble at the wire and his feet kick spasmodically at the floor.

There's an empty heave of the man's diaphragm, then another, then the Minister of Labour is still. Silent.

They dump the body in a car by the airport to be found the next day.

He grins savagely. He's sure this isn't what Arthur meant at all.

--- But he—they—_he_ holds off on killing Cross; it's unwise to cash in all of one's chips in the middle of the game, after all.---

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November 6

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The game is over sooner than he would have thought, he thinks, as police storm the Chenier cell's safehouse. He watches detachedly, no longer really there, as Laporte's killers are arrested. Bernard Lortie, clapped in handcuffs and being read his rights, catches his glance and glares right back. The hate doesn't sting like it should. It's separate from him. Not part of Canada anymore. The pull is still there, yes, that liberation song whispering through Québec, but it's becoming peaceful now. A quiet storm.

Coming back to himself, his awareness shifts to Ottawa, where he is shaking Trudeau's hand.

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December 3

_Matanzas, Cuba_

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Safe passage to Cuba is the price for James Cross' safety and freedom. Canada, in full military dress, escorts five known terrorists out of his lands and down south, at Castro's approval. It's like lancing a boil. Like cutting out a tumour.

"You're not really good at this revolution stuff, are you?" Cuba asks him later, mouthing around a big Cohiba cigar.

He squints a little in the bright Caribbean sun. "I never want to be good at it," he answers truthfully. Warm sea-salt air clears his head a little. He breathes it in deep.

Cross is set free, and he breathes a little easier.

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May 20, 1980

_24 Sussex Drive, Ottawa_

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Ten years later, they put it to a vote. He leaves the decision to Québec to make, though that distinct part of him is right there with them weighing his options; staying with Canada or pushing toward sovereignty. He shuts his doors and turns off the lights, waiting the day away, half afraid that some new quasi-nation would come bursting out of his chest in a spray of bloody gore like in _Alien_.

Nine o'clock P.M. rolls around. There is no blood. He steps out into the cool night air, relieved. He repeats a low mantra under the stars.

I am my own.

I am one.

I am me.

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A month and a half later, alone in his office, he sings _O Canada_ as his official anthem for the first time in his life.

His heart swells as the languages merge, the anthem swapping freely between French and English.

_True patriot love, in all thy sons' command_

_Car ton bras sait porter l'épée, il sait porter la croix_

He sings it loud and clear before Parliament and the world on April 17, 1982 as Elizabeth II puts pen to paper and signs the Canada Act; true patriation, more than just confederation. Arthur hovers just behind her, face neutral, but he can see a glimmer of something close to _pride_ in the United Kingdom's eyes as full control is handed over to Matthew's people and government. Québec is silent within him, appeased for the moment and celebrating with the rest of the nation.

_Glorious and Free_

He sings it louder, imploringly, at the polls in 1995, when the referendum is called all over again. And that night, by the very tightest of margins, he keeps it all together.

_Protégera nos foyers et nos droits_

So he's still humming that same tune to himself tonight, bending the notes in a gentle baritone, looking across the Ottawa River, that broad liquid border between Ontario and Québec, as fireworks shimmer in the midwinter sky. It's a new year. A new set of trials and victories. It will never be _over_, but perhaps he can manage nevertheless.

He closes his eyes, breathes the still night air. He smiles the gentle smile reserved for fragile, breakable things.

He sings it in both official languages, then in Inuktitut for good measure.


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